


Putting It Together

by tintagel



Category: Beyond Belief - Fandom, The Thrilling Adventure Hour
Genre: Art Thief AU, F/M, Rich Frank AU, The nebulous world of when BB is set, Welp let's shove Hopper back a few decades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tintagel/pseuds/tintagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Doyle is a rich, bored bachelor. Sadie Knickerhouse affects to be made in the same mould, but really she's after his art collection. For anyone who thought Art Imitates Life needed its own spinoff series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this on and off for about a month now. Big up to The She-Hulk Project and Secrets of Luftnarp for the invaluable advice and twitter hugs they bestowed upon me. I realise my niche in fics is 'AUs of people getting together because goddamn they're perfect' but it's a niche I'm exquisitely happy to occupy.

Frank Doyle was terribly bored. As a patron of the many auctions this charity joint held, he was obligated to come to far too many of their self-congratulatory benefits where the auction committee begged to borrow back the most expensive items they’d sold over the past quarter. Since they valued Mr. Doyle’s custom so very much, they had only asked for one item, a painting. The bar one, if Frank could remember correctly—it had been a good few hours since he’d grudgingly agree—the one by that Hopper fellow. He’d given permission for the painting and then, of course, accompanied it to make sure nothing happened to it. Frank wasn’t much of an art man, more of a curio collector, but the picture had no door to the bar… almost an ideal.

People circled like land-sharks, forever roving. They barely looked at the paintings and the crockery on offer. This place only offered two glasses of champagne apiece at the reception, too! Frank resolved to make a fuss about that just as soon as he’d emptied his hipflask.

Who was here that he knew… Chip Chipplesworth, double-fisting champagne and looking for someone. Carter Caldwell staring meaningfully at a set of Erté prints and sighing when spoken too. Bobo Bru-something, all giggles and conspiracies, next to the police chief and his vampire wife together on the meagre excuse for a dancefloor.

There was a woman staring at his painting. Her hair was down in a silken jet-black fall, her dress a sheath of dark green. As Frank looked she wordlessly turned her head to the side and smiled his way.

And that was it for him.


	2. I Don't Want to Fall In Love With You

Sadie Knickerhouse had the painting in her sights. She had an escape route. All that was needed was to connect A to B and maybe pilfer a case of whisky on the way home—and then she could plan her next daring heist with Basil. Currently, he was sitting on the roof and freezing his unmentionables off—but they both knew a beautiful lady could get away with much more in high society than a superfluous man.

She almost wished she’d taken up Basil’s idea of having small walkie-talkies connected via lapels, because she could feel someone watching her. Rule one of the art thief’s handback—of which there were few, truth be told—was never let yourself be seen by anyone who could connect you to the theft. Maybe Basil could have caused a distraction, spilled a tray of drinks, if he’d agreed to her suggestion of playing a waiter. But it looked like she’d have to get rid of this one on her own.  
She turned a shining smile on her lips—as bright as the light and as fake as the diamonds in her earrings. It quickly faltered, which was troubling. Why should a slack-jawed, moustachioed fellow affect her plans?

“Lovely painting,” she found herself saying in that damned cheerful high-society voice, like she would hang it above her bathtub and titter about water damage—“it wasn’t as if it cost a lot, darling!”

“I’m glad you like it,” the man replied, dashing and suave, and Sadie had the horrible sensation that she was being double-bluffed.

“Don’t tell me you’re the artist. Or you know the artist. Or either combination.”

“I shan’t,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

“So.” Sadie half-turned to face him, taking in the elegantly tailored suit, the silvery glint of his hipflask as he tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. “What’s your relationship to this rather singular piece of art?” She managed, just barely, to get the words out without letting her eyes roam hungrily over his body. To Frank’s ear, the way she spoke was languid—the voice of a lady who knew that plenty of marvellous things were going to come her way. Naturally, his voice would tie itself into knots as he processed her question—it was only natural for him. What other fool would stand there grunting monosyllabically whilst a woman as perfect as an aged Scotch stood before them? Frank Doyle, apparently—able to ruin life’s simplest pleasures with only a few consonants and vowels as the mood took him.

“I collect art, I suppose.”

“You only suppose?”

Maybe if he wished hard enough, his moustache would hide his blush.

The fact was, Frank Doyle hadn’t been this intrigued for months. Even his medium abilities had stopped being fascinating after that business of the exorcism with that Catholic girl—and yet, if he went outside and actually encountered ghosts, they wanted help. Tangible help. He knew very well he couldn’t provide that.  
The woman shifted a little. He was surprised at how much he noticed, but it was like all the tiny hairs on his arms had stood to attention by virtue of her being present.

“My—I’m Frank,” he said, what little smoothness he possessed running quickly away from him. He saw her eyes dart to the tastefully small plaque in front of the painting, and suppressed a grimace.

“I take it from that flinch you don’t want to be recognised, Mr. Doyle,” came the lady’s elegant voice.

“Ah. Right on the money, Miss—?”

“Parker,” she said quickly. “So why confide in me?”

“—Miss Parker. You look exceptionally trustworthy.” It sounded abominably close to A Line, which made him wince. There was the truth of it, though. If his soul needed safekeeping hers would be the hands he would deposit it into. It was difficult for Sadie to hide her surprise, and Frank wondered dizzyingly if interacting with this beauty would ever get any easier. Maybe she was just stunned at how badly he was doing when it came to civil conversation. He’d gone from grunting in her presence to essentially rolling over and showing her his throat in supplication. Whatever the reason, she certainly seemed lost for words—her hand went to nervously adjust her earring, a glorious fall of sparkling gems.

“Hey! You!” A voice unwanted in this quiet interlude broke through, and a body followed it. Frank vaguely recognised one of the security guards he’d seen at the door—close-cropped sandy hair, a surly expression, and just the sort of person to own upwards of three guns.

The man addressed Miss Parker, seemingly untouched by her loveliness.

“You weren’t on the guestlist.”

“But I’m already inside, darling!” Miss Parker pointed out the obvious flaw in the fellow’s logic, and annoyingly he didn’t seem to take the hint and leave them alone.

“Get out,” she was told, and something like a feeling of power came over Frank—anger and power, an intoxicating mix of when he’d first met a ghost (at the age of eight) and when he’d finished his first bottle of whisky (a few years later).

“Miss Parker is with me,” he said. His voice sounded as thin and waxed as his moustache. He was pretty sure it was his voice, but it wasn’t normally so clear or so cold as to freeze the man in his tracks. Fascinating. He should defend people he hardly knew more often. “As my plus-one.”

“Date,” Miss Parker put in, sounding taken aback but smiling. “How right you are, darling. I’m his date.”

“And as you’ve just insulted her—“ Frank continued—“I think I shall quit this viewing. And I’m taking my painting with me.”

“But—“ squawked the guard, as Miss Parker planted a hand on her hip to better survey the man. 

“The drinks here were bad enough!” Frank proclaimed, one hand on his hipflask. “But insulting my companion Is something up with which I shall not put. Let’s go, darling.”

“Right away, Frank dear,” Miss Parker replied. There was something good-humoured and affectionate in her voice and he almost tripped as she put her hand in the crook of his elbow.


End file.
